


A Work In Progress

by I_Write_Midnight_Snacks (Pink_and_Purple_Daisies)



Series: Something better than you are today [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Accidental Sibling Acquisition, But like it's barely there, Enemy to Caretaker, Existential Angst, Gen, Good Sibling Jason Todd, Injury, Jason Todd Has PTSD, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Panic Attacks, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Whump, anyway I'm just tagging every source material i can think of at this point, because let's be honest neither one of them was planning on this but they're getting it anyway, i love them your honor, no beta we die like jason todd, strap in lads we're making that a tag, taking advice on that, they'll work through their issues one piece at a time if that's what it takes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:13:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_and_Purple_Daisies/pseuds/I_Write_Midnight_Snacks
Summary: He’s looking down at the pages. He’sseeingthem, but his mind just. Isn’t computing.Because that’shim.He’s staring down at himself as a scrawny, smiling kid, crouched on top of a gargoyle and shaded in the obscurity of Gotham’s smog, always bright in the traffic light colors of the Robin suit, a light in the fucking dark like some kind of metaphor he can’t even consider dissecting right now, and he doesn’t understand.Or, Jason finds something he wasn't expecting in Tim's flat, and it leaves him reeling with feelings he wasn't prepared for.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Series: Something better than you are today [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2071341
Comments: 13
Kudos: 483





	A Work In Progress

**Author's Note:**

> This series is growing Conflict and a Plot and I must say I'm not thrilled. But it is what it is and we'll make do because it's happening one way or another. Anyway i have a lot of feelings about both Jason and Tim so I guess we'll be working through those as this series goes.
> 
> I do hope I'm capturing them right, but this is your reminder that I've never touched canon with a ten foot pole other than some bits of the under the red hood movie. I refuse to touch the comics though, so we're working with what we have, lads.

The noise they make as they enter the apartment is, frankly, embarrassing for two fully-trained, experienced vigilantes. Tim drops Jason on top of a ridiculously fancy couch, the door slams shut behind them too hard to feel comfortable to either, but there’s not much they can do about it in their state.

Tim immediately limps back to engage his security systems, flips open latches and secret compartments next to his door and his windows, and Jason just breathes.

“You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Tim says, finally. It’s the first words spoken between them since they left the fight, hanging onto each other once more, and Jason-

Jason bristles. He's tired, and angry, but mostly defensive because he can’t reconcile his own actions, wants nothing less than to have them acknowledged, because that means he has to accept what they mean. So he falls back on his defense, draws his anger over himself like a protective blanket and snaps, jumps on the offense to push everyone away. “Oh, yes, because things turned out so well last time you were hit by one of these,” he snarls.

“And letting me drag your sorry ass halfway across gotham was much better, as if you don't weigh like a tank,” Tim says, and he rolls his eyes at Jason, because he has the self-preservation skills of a fucking koala.

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“Well, I didn’t ask you to jump in front of that stun gun for me, but here we are. Deal with it.”

Which is how they ended up here.

Because they were following up on the stun gun case from before, and ended up on the wrong side of a fight again.

And Jason saw one of them aim for the replacement, and he panicked. And he jumped between the kid and the weapon. Like a fucking idiot.

And now he’s useless, immobile, laying on the kid’s couch and trying to ignore all the implications, because his first instinct was to protect the kid, and he doesn’t want to think about what that means.

The world nearly changes colors, he can see the green fading in, but this time he knows how much of it used to influence him, how green the world was before clarity broke in, and he shoves it away viciously despite the perch it finds easily in his anger. His feelings are his own.

He shouldn’t be surprised when he’s jerked out of his own head violently.

“Ow, fuck! Watch it, replacement!”

Tim holds the bottle of disinfectant he just dumped on Jason’s split thigh, expression unimpressed, and something in Jason feels insulted.

“Do you want that wound cleaned, or not? Because I’d be happy to leave you like this and go, you know.”

Jason counts his breaths - reaches ten. Tim gets to work. It needs stitches, and he wants to not black out from pain so he accepts the anaesthesia. He still can’t handle anything remotely close to drugs, though, and the syringe nearly gives him a panic attack, so he has to look away and count his breaths - 4 in, seven hold, 8 out. Rinse and repeat - but the kid is surprisingly efficient, and if he notices Jason’s unsteady breathing, he doesn’t mention it.

He brings a blanket though, and helps Jason lay down, and his couch might look all fancy but it’s damn uncomfortable.

“You better go to sleep and not go tracking down whatever new info is rattling around in that head of yours, replacement,” he says, and the kid has no right looking that dubious given their last encounter.

“Right…” Tim drags out. “Night, Jason.”

The little shit limps away without answering him. Jason better not find out that the kid spent another sleepless night compiling info.

***

He’s forced to reassess that sentiment a few hours later, unless he wants to be a giant stinking hypocrite.

Since he’s still awake. Staring out the distant window and very carefully measuring every breath. Not panicking. Because he’s ok, and there’s no reason to panic as long as he just keeps breathing. Carefully.

The flat is completely still, and dark, and silent like night, and he needs to see the window to spot the light beyond it and be sure that there's something out there other than darkness.

It shouldn't bother him. There's nothing actually wrong, he's in a big, open flat and safe and not alone. There's no reason to panic.

But it’s so silent, and so dark, and Jason still can’t _move_ , his muscles are limp and unresponsive and the blanket feels like it’s _burying him alive_

His heart wants to beat out of his chest, but he keeps breathing. Has been breathing. It's fine. His heart isn't racing, because he's breathing, carefully. There’s still air, he’s not choking. Four in, seven hold, eight out, four in again-

Darkness everywhere and his limbs _won’t move_ he’s _trapped_ -

Breathe, he can breathe, it’s fine-

Pressure is covering his limbs, he’s choking on dirt and he can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, it's dark and he’s choking-

Four in-

He claws at the dirt but his arms won’t move, fingers grasping painfully, scratching and tearing and breaking and-

He can't see anything and it's _dark_ -

His fingers catch in the blanket, grasp desperately but it's not enough, he can't gat out, can't get free, he's choking and bleeding and he _can't_

He gasps a breath and _rolls_ , hits the ground with a painful thud but it jolts him back - that’s Tim’s floor, and Tim’s couch, and his blanket, and it’s Tim’s window to his left, beyond his kitchen counter. His knees hurt from the fall, and his wound throbs, and the floor is smooth and his clothes are scratchy.

He’s breathing -in and out, too fast. He has to stop and try again every time his breath hitches, every time it gets stuck in his throat and he coughs and it feels like dirt scratching his throat, but he’s breathing, and he’s back in Tim’s apartment, and he’s not buried alive, and he’s ok.

His breathing steadies, slowly. Right there on the ground next to the couch, he gets himself under control. He’s on his knees and elbows, when he comes back to himself, so he tests out his limbs, tries to move each one a bit, and it’s not perfect but he has some function back at least.

He should - he should get some sleep. He lays on his side, right there on the wooden floor. It's solid and cold under him. It helps, grounds him in the here, and he lays there and lets the last vestiges of panic go while his hip pushes against the floor. Just like that, his breathing steadies, and finally, his heartbeat calms.

He can't sleep, though. Normally, when he’s like this, he’d find a book to read, lay down and distract himself until his brain is ready to rest again. He’s not sure what books Tim has laying around, though, and it’s dark, so he can’t see, and his phone-

His phone. Right. He can probably use the flashlight without waking Tim up, so he does, and immediately feels some tension seeping out of his body. He can see around. It helps. It also helps that the room has an open plan, so there’s enough space around him.

He only finds a single shelf, and on a closer look, it’s mostly technical books - nothing Jason would pick to take his mind away, clearly he and Tim have different inclinations, but he does find a book without a labeled spine, so he picks it out hoping for something helpful, opens it for a peek.

And

he’s looking down at the pages. He’s _seeing_ them, but his mind just. Isn’t computing.

Because that’s _him_.

He’s staring down at himself as a scrawny, smiling kid, crouched on top of a gargoyle and shaded in the obscurity of Gotham’s smog, always bright in the traffic light colors of the Robin suit, a light in the fucking dark like some kind of metaphor he can’t even consider dissecting right now, and he doesn’t understand.

That’s him on the next page too, eating an ice-cream on top of a building where the light of the moon hit him just so. The city lights are a vague impression far beneath him, and he's smiling as his legs dangle over the edge. The next one, swinging off a building with all the exuberance of a child, laughing brightly and framed against the night sky, looking to the whole world as if he were actually flying. The next page too, a grin on his face, looking up at the darkened silhouette of a bat, all glee and pride, and the next page, and the next, and the next, and-

Jason can’t even remember ever smiling that much.

_He can’t remember._

But it’s right there in front of him, the young kid he used to be, happier than he can ever remember being, before all the anger, all the arguments, all the fights that are clear as shards of shattered glass, cutting through his heart and leaving wounds that bleed green.

He’s looking at himself and doesn’t recognize him.

Everything he’s doing is for that kid - the kid who went into a grave years ago and never truly came back out. The kid whose grave he left behind, and later swore to protect from the world.

The scrawny, malnourished 12 year old, fending for himself on too dangerous streets because nobody else would, because everywhere was dangerous and the system was never made to protect those like him. A kid who wanted nothing more but to feel a bit safe, because no matter how many criminals were put down, dozens more would take their place, and as long as nothing really changed, he was never really safe, and nobody cared enough to make it better.

For the 13 year old who thought that Robin was magic. Who donned a cape and a mask and just like that thought that he could change the world.

For the 14 year old who thought that others like him deserved to be safe and protected, and who was so - so angry every time a bad guy showed up, every time more victims were hurt, when the system kept failing and more people slipped through the cracks, and he kept failing to save them all. Just a kid, who really, truly thought the would should be better, and yet it never was.

For the 15 year old who died betrayed by a parent and let down by another. Who was never avenged, and never came back even as his murderer walked free.

Yet for all that, he can’t remember this. Can’t remember the kid who was happy, who was cared for, who believed in Batman and smiled so much and so openly.

He knows it must have happened, he knows there were times like that, and he can see it now, laid out in photos one after another in front of himself, but he can’t-

 _It was a lie_ the green tries to scream.

Jason knows what the world looked like green, and he knows how the fog faded. Here it is, though, all over again, tinting everything, taking everything bad inside of him and messing it up into something ugly, something jagged that grinds against the world, and making everything good feel far away and small. How long has it been since he felt something not tainted by the green? How much of what he remembers is real, and how much is twisted?

He flips the album back to the first page, sees the very first pictures, the ones of Robin at the very start. Still small and scrawny, still shaking off the last vestiges of malnourishment, but full of cheer and determination and the pure will to do good. He remembers how easily that will to do good turned into frustration, and then into anger, when no matter his efforts, bad things kept happening and bad guys kept getting away.

Those victims deserved to be safe, and those perps deserved to be hurt. That part was all him. It’s always been all him.

Maybe that’s why it was so easy for the pit to find an anchor, to start from there and twist everything around it until Jason doesn’t know what was him and what was the pit anymore, only that things are missing and he never even _noticed_.

How much of him was silenced by jagged edges bleeding green?

His hands are shaking, he should - he has to put the album down, needs to - to think. He has to go and think.

“Jason?”

He flinches.

The light turns on and everything’s too much, and Jason is still shaking. He can’t stop.

There’s silence, but he knows Tim got closer when a sharp inhale comes from right behind him.

“Oh. Jason…”

The book drops. He leaps to his feet –stumbles, catches himself on the couch, his thigh pulses with pain- and clenches shaking hands into fists. “What’s that?”

The kid is avoiding his eyes. That’s fine. Jason can’t really look at him either, not feeling like this, cracked open and vulnerable, barely held together by a thread.

“I forgot that was there,” the kid says after a few seconds, not answering Jason’s questions. He bends down to pick up the album, and it’s easier to breathe with Tim’s back turned to him.

 _Why would you even have that_ he doesn’t ask. _Why keep so many pictures of me like I’m worth the space on your shelf._

“Where’d you even get all those?” he asks instead, because it’s an easier problem to focus on. “Those were all on patrol. I didn’t realize people were following us so closely.”

Tim mumbles a response. He isn’t standing yet.

“What was that?”

“I said it wasn’t random people. I took them.”

His head whips up to look at the kid.

"What the fuck?” he whispers, with feeling, because what the fuck?

Tim went rigid, still not turning around to look at Jason, but at least Jason is looking at him properly now, eyes narrowed, trying to piece things together because that makes no sense. He would have been an actual, literal child back then, no way was he following him and Batman around on patrol just like that. Not unnoticed.

His brain stalls.

“Wait, that was you?”

Tim cringes.

“With the stupid camera and the stupid hair, and you got stuck on the arch of a bridge that one time!” He’s thinking hard on it, and the memory is a few years old, a little fuzzy, but it was memorable enough to stick, and sure enough, if he subtracts a bit of height, adds some flustered nervousness, it comes just close enough to click. “Jesus, baby bird,” he laughs, “I thought you were gonna drown. Are you telling me you were pulling those kinds of stunts all the time?”

Tim’s shoulders are hunching more and more. Jason’s circling him now, slow un protesting muscles but steady enough for now. He can see the flush rising to his pale skin, and oh yeah, this is priceless. This is perfect. Jason is delighted. “You were a stalker!”

Oh, the kid is never living this one down.

“How many places did you get stuck following us around?” he has to ask. He’s in position to see Tim’s face properly by now. The kid is radiating embarrassment, it’s the best thing Jason’t seen. He shuts the album and shoves it back into place, stands up to turn around, but it’s too late. Jason knows, now.

“Wait, wait, what age even where you back then?”

He almost thinks the kid is going to ignore him, but then he slumps, resigned, and Jason knows he’s won.

“I started at nine,” Tim admits.

And, “Ok, that’s actually. Kind of impressive? In a vaguely creepy way. How did we never catch you?”

“I was careful.”

He snorts, because being careful is one thing, but being able to follow Batman around for years, of all people, without ever getting caught, that’s another level entirely. That takes skill.

“Well. That explains how you fit in with them so fast, at least.”

He meant it to sound light. It…. doesn’t come out that way. The familiar edge of bitterness bites into his heart again, and he pushes away the tint of green, but the bitterness stays. He was never good enough, no matter what he did, never lived up to his predecessor, to the golden boy, and yet. Tim was a better bat than him without even trying.

He doesn’t expect the answering snort, nor the bitterness on the kid’s face. That’s surprising, but then, things never truly were only sunshine and rainbows in the Wayne family.

Jason waits, but the kid doesn’t elaborate. He drops the conversation altogether, makes his way to the kitchen counter, and sets about making coffee, which… ok, granted, neither of them is sleeping anymore tonight, but still.

“How did you even live in the same house as Alfred for so long? Fuck, kid, at least have some food before filling up on caffeine. Did you even eat dinner last night?”

“Fuck off.”

Jason rolls his eyes. “Absolutely not. Sit down, baby bird.”

He expects a retort. The kid gives him an odd look, instead, and Jason isn’t sure what it’s about, so he ignores it and does his own thing. Tim has… concerningly little in the way of food. Something that probably used to be a vegetable in his fridge, yoghurt he wouldn’t touch with a ten foot pole, some frozen vegetables (thank fuck for those) and a lot of instant ramen. Which… just, no.

“Fucking christ,” he says. “How the hell are you still alive, kid?”

He doesn’t expect a response, and he doesn’t get one, but he does manage to find a pack of spaghetti forgotten at the back of a cabinet, and an assortment of canned food gathering dust in a single drawer.

He can work with that.

He feels the kid’s eyes on him as he moves around the kitchen, looking through everything to familiarize himself with the kitchen, and finally setting to work on some veggie spaghetti. It’s not breakfast food, and it’s not his best dish ever, but if canned food is all he has to work with, he can make do.

He loses himself in the easy rhythm of cooking, in scents and tastes and the improvisation that comes with it. His muscles loosen slowly with the motion, and movement becomes easier. Cooking is easy in a way few things are, nowadays, good memories that aren’t tainted by rage and revenge, of helping Alfred and learning bit by bit. It’s something that was his and Alfred’s and nobody else’s, and everything he learned with the man comes as easy as it ever did.

It helps settle him, a bit, the easy movements that keep his hands busy and his mind thinking about the next step. He still feels raw and open, but some of that tangle of emotions from before actually unwinds a bit, with these good memories to fall back on.

Tim is silent the entire time, even, and when Jason is finally done, he’s staring, but at least he hasn’t started working himself ragged yet, so that saves Jason one headache at least.

“You do this a lot?” he asks finally, while Jason is plating the food.

“Do what?”

“Cook.”

He snorts. “I make most of my own food, baby bird,” he says, putting down Tim’s plate with a pointed look. “You better finish that. Don’t think I didn’t notice you drink half that coffee pot.”

The kid rolls his eyes, but he seems to know a lost battle when he sees one, at least, because he doesn’t talk back. Across from him, Jason is eating his own food. He’s still a mess, a collection of broken shards and jagged edges pulled together after everything broke apart. He’s still not sure how many pieces are left of him, and how much of something foreign he switched in when he was still picking up the pieces and putting himself back together. But he can still bring up fond memories of days in the kitchen, and he can enjoy a plate of food in comfortable silence, so at least not everything is all bad.


End file.
